


where have all the cowboys gone?

by capncrunchy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Brokeback Stucky, Cowboy AU, Cowboys, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Gender Stereotypes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Top Steve Rogers, Unfinished, Vietnam War, WIP, high-key brokeback mountain, switching between past/present, wild west west
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-03-09 04:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18909322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capncrunchy/pseuds/capncrunchy
Summary: It's been said the best cowboys ride alone. But what if they don't want to?(alternatively, cowbody au stucky)





	1. August 1999

**Author's Note:**

> A work in-progress, not sure if I'll get around to finishing it. I would like to, but mostly I was tired of keeping it to myself. I'm sure this is not a new concept for this ship, but I hope you enjoy this small piece of it :)
> 
> title is from paula cole's song

_August 1999 _

Though the years had taken their toll on Steve’s mind and his heart—he would never outrightly admit to the latter—his body had remained strong and sturdy, the true mark of a cowboy. On mornings when the wind rattled the walls of his small home and his knee injured in the war started acting up, such as this particular morning, he felt quite the opposite, like he was nine-hundred years old.

Finishing off his mug of instant coffee, he made a mental note of the tasks he needed to complete for the day.

_Call each of the kids back. Feed the dogs. Write a check for the electricity bill. Find work_

He grimaced as he jotted down the final note, as today marked another week without work. When he was young he could manage the lifestyle of unsteady work—hell, he might have enjoyed it a little, the freedom of it all, not being tied down to one place or thing. But that was many years ago, now he was old and the pattern of living paycheck to paycheck, job to job, had grown tiresome, and he was weary of the instability. This was the only life he knew, though. So, as the saying goes, old dog, same tricks. 

Years of living alone had conditioned him to seek constant work, it kept his mind from wandering to places that he would much rather not think about all too often. Though today, this method was doing little to quell his subconscious, as the night before a certain James Buchanan Barnes had been the subject of his dream.

And if Steve were being completely honest with himself—which he usually was not—he had awoken from the dream with a smile gracing his lips and a lightness in his heart that he had not felt since the first summer he and Bucky spent together in their youth.


	2. June 1980

_ June 1980 _

Steve willed his battered pick-up truck to trudge up the hill that his and Peggy’s house sat upon, letting a sigh of relief as he managed to ease it to the top of the gravel driveway, each day was a surprise with the old piece of shit. 

Turning off the ignition, he took a minute to appraise the place he supposed was the closest thing to home he’d had in his entire life. The house was small and dilapidated, covered in white—well, more of a dull, aged gray—siding, the roof desperately needed replacement, and the steps leading up to the porch creaked achingly with the slightest pressure.

After the war, high on their vitality and love, he and Peggy had dreamed of the house they wouldraise their family in. She had dreamed of white plantation-style home, with a sprawling yard and a big porch. He chuckled bitterly at this memory, as the only thing they had gotten right was the almost-white exterior, and well, he supposed they did have a porch, though it was more of a concrete stoop probably added to the house as an afterthought. That had to count for at least something, right?

As the years went on, Steve was finding out life rarely went according to plan.

Steve’s two little daughters, a blonde and a brunette—Liz and Maggie—excitedly banged on the window of their father’s truck, pulling him from his reverie. He swiftly picked them both into his arms, as they shrieked and fought for their father’s attention over who would get to recount the events of their day. 

Liz, the eldest, eventually beat out her little sister, and announced, “Daddy! Daddy! You got a letter today!”

“A  _real_  letter,” Maggie added, further asserting Liz’s message. Steve laughed at their antics, though gave little thought to this, as it was most likely bills, like usual.

He crossed the drafty threshold of the house and was greeted by a smiling Peggy, but her happy facade could not erase the strained look in her eyes as she balanced the crying baby on her hip and sorted through a pile of what was undoubtedly a growing number of bills. A cowboy's salary was often unpredictable and scare, and even the aid from his time in the military failed to alleviate the cost of raising three small children.

Liz and Maggie escaped his grasp and scrambled to grab an envelope from on top of the counter for their father, and anxiously watched him open it. The envelope contained a postcard with a group of cheesy, cartoon cactus, bearing the message, “GREETINGS FROM ARIZONA - THE CACTUS STATE.”

The back, in scrawling handwriting, read, “Steve - Heard you were set up here. I’ll be driving thru next Thursday. Let me know if you want to meet up. -JBB.” _Bucky_.

Steve hadn’t realized the smile that crept onto his lips as he read, but Peggy clearly had witnessed this rarity, “Who’s that from, darling?”

He paused, as if he were a children caught in a punishable act, how could he ever describe Bucky? Moreover, how could he ever explain Bucky to his _wife_. Steve came back to his senses and explained, “We grew up together, used to fish together.” 

“Hmm,” she pressed her lips together, “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

Steve shrugged absentmindedly in response, “Guess it never came up?”

That answer seemed to satisfy Peggy for the time being. Steve filed the postcard in his back pocket and made plans to visit the post office the next day, eager to let his old friend know he sure would like to see him. 

 


	3. July 1970

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve was eighteen when he first met Bucky Barnes.

_July 1970_

eighteen

For folks in small farming towns, Wyoming summers certainly did not offer a well-deserved reprieve from the state’s often harsh winters and cool temperatures. Instead, summers were perhaps even less forgiving—a paradox of air so dry a man could feel the water evaporating from his veins and winds so damp and strong legend claimed at least one baby a year got swept up in a gust. These days weren’t filled with lounging by the pool, but work—hard work. Not a day could be wasted when money could be made, especially with talks of the war in Vietnam ramping up.

Steve was about to turn eighteen when he met Bucky Barnes, amid one of these Wyoming summers. Well, he had always known of Bucky, seeing as their town was rather small, but Steve had dropped out of school after junior high following his mother’s death and didn’t know the kids too well.

His father, George Barnes was an established and well-respected mechanic, and Steve’s father swore the man could fix just about anything, and whole-heartily refused to give his service to any of the competitors in town.

So, Steve had recognized his face when Bucky joined the Guernsey Reservoir Boat Repair Team, which was essentially a shady boatyard that made hasty repairs to local’s pontoons. A fact that was evident in their pattern of hiring less-than-qualified teenaged boys. This summer Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes happened to be those token less-than-qualified boys.

The pair spent nearly every day together at the old boatyard, trying their best—and failing miserably—to fix the boats that came their way. The two seemed for form a strong friendship, marked by a pattern of Steve listening to Bucky ramble for hours under the belly of a boat. His train-of-thought never seemed to follow a certain theme, but jumped sporadically from one topic to the next—which was quite different than the conversations that he was used (or lack thereof) between Steve and his father.

On a particularly dry day at the beginning of July, Bucky’s mood seemed soured. “My big brother’s birthday got drawn for the draft—he has to report soon.”

These seemed to be the most feared words that a person could utter around town, especially in a working-class town such as theirs. People needed their sons around, and Steve knew that the Barnes family would be hurting without the extra hand of their eldest son. As soon as Steve could, his father had ordered him to turn in his draft eligibility form. Perhaps his father would have preferred he had just enlisted, following his own example in WWII, but Steve assumed he needed his help for a little while longer.

Steve looked up from the hopeless engine he was taking apart, Bucky was sitting against a pile of discarded shiplap, his shoulders hunched forward and his eyes shut tightly, seeming much smaller than he usually appeared. Steve’s fingers itched for a pencil to capture his form.

“I—I’m sorry, Bucky.” He didn’t know if it was the right thing to say, but he couldn’t think of anything else.

Bucky recoiled as if he had been burned by Steve’s sympathy, and immediately sat up a little straighter. “No—No, it’s an honor. We’re all real proud’a him. He’ll serve this town well.” This surely didn’t convince Steve, but he didn’t feel like starting anything today.

It was quiet for a moment, until Bucky worked up the courage to say something, “I think I’d die if I got drafted, all’s I really wanna do is ride bulls in the rodeo.”

Steve had to laugh at this assertion, “Buck—Why that’s as deadly as the napalm they’ll be seeing in ‘Nam.” He teased, throwing his torque wrench at Bucky.

This was clearly taken as permission for Bucky to charge at the blond, “Why—You bastard! You better take that back!” he shouted as the two of them quarreled in the dried-out grass, laughing the whole time.

Suddenly, Steve stopped, losing all interest in the fight, and simply laid on his back, looking up at the sky. Bucky seemed confused and hovered over him with worry in his eyes, “What’s wrong, pal?”

“Buck, my birthday was drawn too.”

  
Rage filled Bucky’s blue eyes and he grasped Steve’s shoulders firmly. “I swear to God, don’t you fucking die over there. You’re one of the best kids around here.”

They were both quiet, but their breathing was heavy. For a second, Steve could have sworn that Bucky was looking at his lips, moving closer to them and perhaps even going to place his own against them. Instead, they both backed away quickly and nervously, though at the time, neither seemed to know exactly why.

“Damn, I’ll try my best,” Steve promised.

 


	4. June 1980 (part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part is heavily influenced by that iconic Brokeback Mountain scene, but the plot of this won't follow as closely going forward. Of course, I own neither the Avengers or Brokeback Mountain, but this is purely for fun. lol enjoy!

_June 1980 - part II_

Steve watched by the window, nursing a beer that had gone lukewarm ages ago, and smoking his umpteenth cigarette—he’d lost count around the end of the first pack. His leg bounced anxiously, as he was waiting for Bucky to arrive. He hadn’t given a specific time of day, but Steve didn’t want to risk missing him, so he found himself practically glued to the seat in front of the window. The television whirring softly in the background, switching from one episode to to the next, seemed to be the only indicator that time had passed. Well, for Steve at least.

“You sure this friend of yours is still coming, dear?” Peggy questioned, looking up from the top of her magazine.

“Oh yeah,” Steve muttered, getting up to crack open another beer, “Buck’s never been early a day in his life.”

“Hmm, is that so?” Peggy mused, then paused, setting her magazine to the side. “I think we should call a sitter? I know Sharon doesn’t mind, the three of us could all go out for dinner.”

Steve felt his stomach tighten, he wasn’t sure Bucky would be interested in sitting down with his wife. In fact, he wasn’t sure exactly what Bucky’s intentions were for this visit, but if they were anything like his own, a friendly dinner wouldn’t be in the itinerary. “I don’t know, the two of us will probably get real rowdy at the bars. Not sure if I’ll make it home. Been a long time since I seen’m.”

“Well then. I just thought it be nice, since you don’t bring friends around here ever,” and added under her breath, “Kids hardly see anyone but the two of us.”

She was miffed, Steve knew that much—but he couldn’t seem to get his focus off of Bucky, of being reunited with him. It had been five years since he’d seen him, since they spent the summer tending to Odin’s farm while the old man spent the summer seeking land prospects in Mexico.

It looked as though Peggy were going to say something else, but the sound of a truck driving up the gravel driveway was enough to stamp her thoughts. Steve immediately sprung up, barely dodging the kids playing on the carpet, and shot for the front door.

Bucky was stepping out of his truck—which Steve briefly noticed was quiet nicer than anything Bucky could’ve afforded when they were teenagers—sporting a big grin. “Bucky Barnes,” Steve stopped right in front of him, “I sure did miss’ya, pal.”

Bucky closed the space between them and crushed his lips against Steve’s. Steve hesitated with a fleeting thought that Peggy might catch them, but this was quickly halted— _she_ _was_ _probably_ _inside_ _with_ _the_ _kids_ _anyways_ —as his desire won over, and he met the kiss with equal force. Gripping Bucky’s hair that was much shorter than the last time he’d done so, he felt like he was back in one of those summers they spent together—free from commitments bigger than themselves.

“Well, hell,” Bucky scoffed and shook his head, pulling the two of them apart, “I sure did miss you too. Now, come show me this new town of yours.”

  
“Wait,” Steve halted, “Come meet Peggy and the kids.”

  
“Ah, so you did marry her like you said you was going to,” Bucky laughed as he followed him inside, “Did she make an honest man of you, Rogers?” Steve rolled his eyes at that.

Peggy was sitting exactly where she’d been before, but she seemed slightly more frazzled—perhaps a little more frantic than she had been just minutes ago. Steve figured one of the kids must have been acting up. “Peggy, this is Bucky. Bucky this is Peggy.”

Bucky held out his hand, “Pleasure to meet the lady that domesticated ol’Steve.” Peggy blinked at that, pausing for a second, before plastering a smile on her face that didn’t quite meet her eyes—“Oh, ha. Why yes, a pleasure to meet you too.”

Steve scrambled to grab his jacket and keys. “Like I said, Peg. Don’t know when the two of us will be back tomorrow. So don’t go on and wait up.” He kissed her softly, as she nodded and ripped a cigarette out of his shirt pocket while he did so. He kissed the girls on the head for good measure and followed Bucky out the door.

 


	5. July 1970 (part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky spend one last night together, before the threat of Steve's deployment becomes a reality and youthful summers end for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning, this chapter features sex that occurs under the influence of alcohol.

_ July 1970 - part II _

_ They were both quiet, but their breathing was heavy. For a second, Steve could have sworn that Bucky was looking at his lips, moving closer to them and perhaps even going to place his own against them. Instead, they both backed away quickly and nervously, though at the time, neither seemed to know exactly why.  _

_ “Damn, I’ll try my best,” Steve promised. _

* * *

 

The pair worked in silence for the rest of the day, each feeling the weight of the conservation they’d had earlier. After what seemed like an eternity to Steve, Bucky slammed the door of a boat’s engine, and proclaimed, “Well, I say we’ve fixed enough boats around here. Let’s get drunk. Celebrate the big soldier.” 

Steve couldn't agree more, he certainly felt the need to get drunk, to ease his mind from his upcoming responsibilities—god, fucking war.

Old Sally’s was the perfect spot for anyone looking to get hammered, no questions asked. Emphasized by a nonexistent limit on drinks and dirt cheap pitchers of beer. So naturally, Steve and Bucky found themselves patronizing the shady bar.

Two pitchers of beer split between the two of them, a couple shots of whiskey down, and Steve could feel himself loosening up. Hell, he might even say he was on the verge of being rather shit-faced. “You think you’re still gonna be fixing boats while I’m gone.”

Bucky looked up from across the pool table, taking his focus off of his next move, and lit a fresh cigarette. “Nah, pal. I’m going to the rodeo,” he grinned wickedly, but only for a moment. “If the draft don’t get me, of course.”

Steve laughed loudly, probably due to the whiskey he was holding in his hand. “Buckin’ Bucky Barnes, the great bull rider. With a name like Buck, you hafta go into bull riding.”

Bucky paused for a moment, until the joke finally caught up to him, evident by the dopey smile plastered on his face. “You take that back, you son of a bitch!” He charged at Steve, meaning to give him a playful shove, but ended up knocking Steve off his chair, and the two of them ended in a messy heap on the floor. 

“Hey…” Steve whined, “You done spilled by whiskey.” He shoved the hysterically laughing Bucky off of him. 

“I—I… I’ll buy you another one, you bastard,” Bucky managed to say through his seemingly endless laughter. 

“Hey! You two!” A jaded bartender—probably Old Sally herself—called out, “Get out of here and go home.”  
  
“Aww, ma’am.” Bucky stumbled onto his feet and walked towards the bar, “Come on, ‘lemme buy my pal a shot, I knocked his down.”

The bartender rolled her eyes, but still slammed two full shot glasses on the bar, “After this, get out. Almost closing time anyways.” Steve took this as a cue to scramble to the bar. 

Bucky raised his shot, “To fixing boats!” Perhaps it made sense to his inebriated brain, but the other patrons looked on in confusion. Steve didn’t even know why Bucky had chosen these words as his toast, but joined in wholeheartedly, “To fixing boats!” 

Followed closely by the bartender, the two left the bar and walked—well as best they could—along the road, kicking rocks and knocking each other’s shoulders together. “I don’t want to go home,” Steve groaned.  

“Why’s that,” Bucky prodded.

“Never a good mix when me and my pa are drunk together,” Steve focused on his feet, not wanting to meet his friend’s eyes. “Always ends in a fight.” 

“Hey, well I got an idea!” Bucky didn’t seem to dwell on the depth of Steve’s statement, his voice filled with elation at managing a new grand plan. “I say we get a motel room and just get piss drunk on whiskey the rest of the night.” When Steve didn’t respond immediately, he shoved his arm, “Come on, what do you say?” 

Steve huffed out a laugh, “I’d say we’re already piss drunk, but hey let’s do it, pal.” 

The motel certainly did not offer the highest quality of rooms and the whiskey that Steve had scored from a gas station was probably lower than bottom-shelf status. Bucky unlocked the door to the room and groaned, “Ah, what? I thought I got us two queens,” and gestured at the king-sized mattress, that had certainly seen better days. 

“Hey, no worries,” Steve nudged, “You can sleep on the floor. I don’t mind,” and pushed the brunet into the room. 

More than half the fifth of whiskey consumed had its intended effects, perhaps best apparent in Bucky sprawled out in the middle of the bed, his shirt tossed aside for whatever reason, singing along to a song that Steve wasn’t sure existed. 

The small television was playing a fuzzy, lackluster version of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Steve tried his best to focus as Elizabeth Taylor attempted to seduce Paul Newman, but he kept getting distracted by Bucky’s seemingly endless tune. 

“Oof,” Bucky sounded as he got on all fours and crawled toward Steve to steal the whiskey bottle away from him, turning to sit with him against the headboard, and Steve couldn’t help but chuckle at his efforts. Bucky silently focused on the movie for barely one minute, before he exclaimed, “Damn, I feel Liz Taylor girl, it’s been so long since I fucked. It’s been a long time.” 

Steve grabbed the bottle back and took a swig, but didn’t respond. “Hey, Rogers. How long has it been for you? Come on tell me, so I can live through you.” Bucky ripped the whiskey away from him. 

“Ha, ha.” Steve teased, “I don’t think I will,” and pulled the bottle away from Bucky once again. 

“Hey!” Bucky shouted and pounced on Steve’s lap, “You’re a fucker, Rogers. Let a man have his whiskey!” 

Fighting off Bucky’s half-hearted attacks, Steve gulped down the rest of the bottle, as Bucky watched in horror and leaped for the blond’s throat. Steve didn’t let that last for long and flipped them over on the bed, Bucky beneath him. Suddenly it was silent, the bickering was halted and neither was fighting anymore, they were just looking at each other in a drunken haze. 

“It’s been a long time,” Bucky repeated, his pupils growing dark, and he lifted himself up on his elbows and pressed his lips against Steve’s. It was a soft kiss at first, neither wanting to make the next move. Then, like a dam breaking, the two were wildly making out, neither holding back, grinding against each other. Teeth accidentally clanking as they grabbed at the other’s clothes—jeans and underwear getting tangled in the process of being taken off. 

Steve pulled back from the kiss, examining Bucky’s naked body beneath him. “Come on, Steve. Come on,” Bucky mumbled, like a mantra and reached up and bit Steve hard on the shoulder. With a newfound drive, Steve spit in his hand and pushed two fingers into Bucky’s ass, and laughed as he keened beneath him.  
  
“Don’t laugh,” Bucky gasped, “Need more.” Steve stroked his dick with a wet hand before thrusting it into Bucky, trying his best to diminish the thought that he felt tighter than any girl he’d ever been with before.

Both were ashamed to admit they hadn’t lasted very long, though some tale of “Whiskey Dick” could probably be blamed for this occurrence. Steve came crashing down on top of Bucky, his face plastered against the other man’s chest, he could feel the booming of his heart. 

In the background, Paul Newman screamed at Elizabeth Taylor, for accusing him of sleeping with his best friend. Neither would admit that this juxtaposition would soon become rather ironic.

The next morning, Steve awoken with a raging headache and a spotty memory of the night before. Bucky was looking at him confused—and probably suffering from a hangover of a similar caliber. “Huh, we must’ve gotten hot last night or something?” Bucky reasoning, nodding to their naked bodies. Steve agreed, not wanting to press into some of the shoddy memories his brain was trying to push to the forefront. 

They each dressed quickly, their backs turned away from each other. Before they left, Bucky offered his hand to Steve, “Good luck out in Vietnam. Stay safe.”

Though Steve wasn’t exactly sure which of his memories from that night were true or not, he knew one thing for sure. When he’d looked in the mirror that night, there was a faint mark on his shoulder in the shape of teeth. 


	6. April 1973

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the war in Vietnam winding down, Steve gets shipped home. But not before receiving a few letters.

_April 1973_

Steve rolled up his last few items of clothing and tossed them into his rucksack. His platoon had gotten word earlier that week that they’d be shipping out of Vietnam, the war was winding down, and Steve had never been so glad to hear anything in his life. 

His time in Vietnam wasn’t as bad as some of the other soldiers, but it certainly had not been enjoyable, not that he’d expected that. He had managed to keep to himself and simply done his job. The only casualty that Steve had sustained was a jagged scar on his right knee, the product of getting grazed by a bullet. The small fracture on the bone of his kneecap had healed pretty quickly, not enough to send him home early, or keep him off the battlefield for too long, but somedays it sure did ache. 

Still, he was lucky, he’d seen some guys lose an arm or a leg that same day, during that rather vicious bombardment. 

“Rogers, a few letters here for you,” Sam announced. He was one of the good friends he had made in the past three years. He was a good soldier, pretty loud and always managing to weasel a joke into a conversation, but he didn’t ask too many questions or expect any deep answers when he did decide to prod—and Steve appreciated and trusted him thoroughly. Steve nodded towards the man, signaling his thanks. Only two letters, but that was more than he usually received. 

He smiled when he recognized the address on the top of the pile—Peggy Carter. The Carter’s land backed up to the Roger’s land, and the two had grown up together. They’d always been friends, but as the years went on, Peggy had certainly grown into a beautiful young lady—with curves for miles, Steve might add. For this reason, Steve had been rather shy about talking to her or making a move, per se. 

When he’d first been deployed, Peggy had declared herself as Steve’s personal pen-pal, after somehow getting his information out of his father, and dutifully sent him a letter weekly, regardless of if he had the time to respond to her own or not. With each letter, he found out that she was certainly more than just a pretty face, and he was quickly falling for her.  

_Darling,_

_I can’t tell you how excited I am for you to come home this week. I’ll be waiting for you at the bus stop like we talked about. Then, I expect you’ll take me dancing, like you promised. Can’t write much today, want to get this out to you on time._

_Yours_ ,

_Peggy_

Things were moving rather quickly between them, as the pair had even started to consider marriage, though this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for childhood friends in their town. And Steve certainly didn't have any complaints about this possible arrangement. Peggy would make a good wife, especially the wife of a cowboy. She was starkly independent, and could hold her own, which Steve was sure he'd need in a wife of his own.

He set the letter aside and reached for the second— _James_ _Barnes_ was written in sloppy handwriting as the return address. He blinked a couple of times, making sure he had read it correctly. 

In the last few years, Bucky hadn’t written at all, and Steve thought he might have felt awkward about their drunk night the last time they’d seen each other, given Steve himself felt poorly that he remembered so little, so he cautiously peeled the envelope open. 

_Hey Pal,_

_Wanted to send my condolences, my ma told me about your pa passing away, and I’m real sorry. I didn’t know him too well, but my daddy said he was a good man, and always stuck by his word. We lost my brother to the war about a year ago, don’t know if you heard._

_Well, enough of that. I’m glad to hear you’re still alive and coming back home. I’ll be working for Odin on one of his farms this summer if you’re looking for work. Suppose it might not be as nice as fixing boats, but hey it’s work. Get ya back into the ol'cowboy lifestyle._

_Stay safe, dumb ass._

_JBB_

Steve reread the letter a few times, and couldn’t help but think of whiskey, Liz Taylor, and the bite mark that he’d once found on his shoulder—couldn't help but think of Bucky.

“Aye, Rogers,” Sam called, clapping him on the shoulder, “We don’t got all day. Quit daydreaming about all your sweethearts back home. It’s time to get the hell out of here.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a filler chapter, sorry... I promise more good stuff to come soon ;-)


	7. June 1980 (part III)

_June 1980 - part III_

 

_“Like I said, Peg. Don’t know when the two of us will be back tomorrow. So don’t go on and wait up.”_

 

* * *

 

Steve’s hand shook as he unlocked the motel room, but he’d place the blame on the couple of beers he’d had at the bar. The lighthearted conversation they’d been carrying on for the past few hours had halted, and they were both silent now. 

They’d been catching up, talking about the changes in their lives that had happened over the past half-decade. Bucky had married a pretty little red head—Natasha, and had a little boy with her. He mentioned that he was a bit scared of her older brother Clint, but the man had still given Bucky a job working as a salesman for the family’s farm machinery company.  


Still, small talk could only go so far. The tension growing between them was palpable—the seven years they’d spent apart were becoming more apparent. He could hear Bucky’s breathing behind him, like the nerves were finally catching up to him too. 

This motel certainly wasn’t much nicer than the one they’d shared nearly a decade earlier, but it sure was nicer than the tent that Odin had left them to sleep in a few years back, and Steve had to chuckle at that.

Silently they both sat on the edge of the single bed in the room. Their shoulders were touching, but still neither was speaking.

Steve flipped on the television, to find that another Elizabeth Taylor movie was playing, and maybe the alcohol had gone to his head or just the sheer irony of the situation was catching up to him, but he let out a loud laugh.

“What? What?” Bucky questioned, looking at him with confusion, which quickly dissipated as he too realized what was on the television.

The laughter died down and the tension arose again in its absence. Bucky was looking at Steve, his usually bright blue eyes looking much darker, full of desire. That simple look was enough to drive them together, each coming back to each other, kissing so hard Steve feared that his nose was broken for a second.

Bucky certainly wasn’t wasting any time—he’d waited long enough for this—as he shucked off his Wranglers, throwing them across the room, and reaching for Steve’s belt. Steve didn’t mind letting Bucky take charge, and simply went through the motions as the other man began to go for the buttons of his flannel. 

“You could at least help me over here,” Bucky breathed out, a miffed edge to his voice. Steve laughed, “What? Don’t wanna just sit and enjoy the view for a second?” 

“Hell, no.” Bucky rolled his eyes, “It’s been 7 years, you asshole.” Steve shrugged his shoulders, but made his true intentions made as he reached for the Vaseline, another aspect of this reunion that was quite different than the last time—preparation, that is. He moved Bucky to the center of the bed and laid him on his back and started working him open with a coated finger. Always loving the way that Bucky kept his eyes on him as he got him ready and added another finger for good measure, maybe just to see the way Bucky’s eyes rolled back a little and he reached for Steve’s lips.

Bucky placed a sloppy, wet kiss on Steve’s lips and trailed his way up the side of his jaw, stopping at Steve’s ear to whisper, “7 years, pal. I need you to fuck me like you mean it.”

Steve’s brain definitely short-wired for a second at those words and he flipped Bucky over on to his front. And damn, if sliding into Bucky didn’t feel like coming home, he wasn’t sure what did.

Bucky cried out from underneath him, mumbling words that didn’t quite make sense, but Steve took it as reason to go all the more faster, feeling himself unravel a bit more.

He’d missed this like hell and he’d missed Bucky even more. The way he managed to smell so clean and of soap, but also somehow like earth and sweat. Once it had been from riding a horse or working in the sun, tonight it was probably more from whiskey—but Bucky still smelled the same. So him. 

For a second, Steve wished he could just live constantly surrounded by that scent, wished that he could always live the moment of him coming into Bucky’s body, but tried to dislodge that from his brain.

This was just a one time thing, another blip in the timeline of their lives.

With a particularly hard thrust, Bucky let out a sob that certainly didn’t sound too much like pleasure. Steve stopped abruptly, as he realized Bucky was crying. He pulled out quickly, rolling the brunet onto his back and pulling him into his arms. “Hey, hey,” Steve soothed, “What’s wrong, pal?” 

Bucky laughed bitterly, whipping away his stray tears, “I… I just missed you a lot.” That broke Steve’s heart a bit, and he leaned down to kiss him. Bucky pulled away, “Wait, don’t stop now, come on. I wanna see you though.” 

Steve nodded and crawled between Bucky’s legs, aligning himself with the other man’s entrance. _Home_.

It was much better, Steve had to admit. Looking into Bucky’s eyes as he met Steve’s thrusts and the simple kisses they’d steal from each other when the pace slowed for a second. 

“Close,” Bucky gasped out, and Steve knew he was close as well, and together they climaxed—Steve collapsing on top of Bucky like he usually did.

It was quiet for a bit, the television blaring in the background. “I missed you too, Buck.” Steve whispered into Bucky’s neck. 

Bucky chuckled, “Huh, really? Could’ve fooled me!”


	8. June 1980 (part IV)

_June 1980 (part IV)_

Steve returned from his time with Bucky riding the high that only comes with the reunion of two souls that hadn’t gotten a chance to cross paths in quite a while. 

A night had quickly turned into a weekend of making love and getting drunk in a tent that they’d rashly purchased and haphazardly assembled out in the campgrounds not too far from where they’d grown up and worked for Odin that fateful summer. He’d made a quick call to Peggy, letting her know they’d decided to go fishing as well. 

God, how he’d missed Bucky. They made plans for another visit in a couple of months, when the business of the upcoming harvest would be at a lull before winter came back with vengeance. 

When Bucky first suggested this arrangement, Steve knew he surely wouldn’t be able to make the trip to Arizona with his crappy old truck, but it felt unfair to make Bucky do the same yet again. Bucky quickly pushed aside these worries, promising that he would come back to Wyoming. Explaining that his wife Natasha didn’t mind him leaving so much—might have even preferred it—and he liked coming back to the familiar terrain he’d spent most of his life exploring. 

Steve’s return was welcomed excitedly by his daughters, each pestering him to tell a story abouthis big trip. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of _that._ He’d had adventures alright, none he’d tell his sweet daughters about, though. 

The only person who didn’t seem to excited about his return was his wife. Peggy glanced half-heartedly at her husband in the doorway, but quickly flicked her gaze back to her magazine and cigarette. 

Making his way to the bedroom, Steve stopped in front of her spot on the couch, towering over her, hands on his hips. “Hey, Peg.”

She looked up, her big brown eyes were lined with dark bags. Must have had a sleepless night, the baby was teething, after all, Steve wagered. “Hello, darling.” This was her usual greeting, but it was devoid of the devotion that was usually behind those words.

“Can’t I have a kiss, dear?” Steve bent down, level to his wife now, trying to work the visible tension away.

She sighed softly, but leaned forward giving him a rather un-passionate kiss, before quickly pulling away to check her watch. “I’ve got to get to work.”

The baby at their feet started to fuss, threatening to becoming a full-blown cry if he was ignored a second longer. Peggy rubbed the baby’s head, but instead of picking little Michael up like she usually did in this situation, reached for her purse and car keys. “I’ll be back a little later, there’s food in the fri—” 

“Hey,” Steve cut her off, grabbing her arm, “Don’t you hear your son?”   
  
She looked back at him with the similar force he was offering her and pulled away from his grip. “I think his father’s care ought to do just fine. Besides, if you’re going to be taking weekends off one of us needs to bringing home some money for these kids.”

With that, she was out the door, leaving Steve in a complete stupor, and surrounded by upset children. Why was she acting like this? He’d never had the chance to take off with a friend before, and he’d never cut out of work before until this time. He thought he’d deserved this one thing. Why did this instance upset his wife so much? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little scene to take us into the next part of this story... Thanks so much for reading! <3


End file.
